


Self-Destruction And Cuddle Piles--2018 Revamp

by paranormalnerd



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Is Gay, Fic Rewrite, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gay Panic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Tord Redemption, and sad, cursing, oof this parts gonna be a bitch to type out, will add more tags as fic updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 18:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15847041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranormalnerd/pseuds/paranormalnerd
Summary: In which the author rewrites their own fic to make up for lack of activity.OG Fic: https://archiveofourown.org/series/563122





	Self-Destruction And Cuddle Piles--2018 Revamp

**Author's Note:**

> this series gets so much activity!! which i love; but i dont love my old writing style. At All. so here's take two: 2018 edition. What did we add? Angst? You betcha. Fluff? Absolutely. The Jokes? Oh, believe me I tried. So, without further ado, lets fucking get this thing rolling.
> 
> TW// cursing, blood, minor anxiety/panic attacks, phantom limb syndrome, claustrophobia, mentions of amputation, self-hatred, alcohol, violence

So, he might not have been completely fucked. But he was incredibly fucked. The line between fucked and completely fucked was so blurred, that at this point it was more of a Venn Diagram than a line. His fucked-ness could probably set a world record for the next two decades. Children would sing songs of how majorly fucked he was at this exact moment. He may as well be a stripper, that's how fucked he was.

A gust of wind pushed hair into Tord’s eyes. Or at least, the eye that was visible, and not wrapped under a gazillion layers of gauze. He stared at the hastily scribbled down address in his left hand, the notebook paper crumpled and obviously ripped from the corner of a page. Tord knew exactly what he had written down, and very much was aware that it wouldn't have changed in the past forty minutes since he originally transcribed it. Or in the three minutes since he last checked it. Still, the way he almost hovered over his note could be compared to a nervous tic. It was a constant nagging feeling, maybe this time it would be blank. The note would be blank and he could go home and forget this ever happened. Except for his ‘home’ wasn't even a home, and if he didn't do anything soon, Tord was sure the guilt would eventually suffocate him. Not that he was guilty. Nope, no guilt here.

The apartment complex loomed overhead like some sort of predator, casting a shadow over Tord. He took a deep breath, burying the anxiety he refused to acknowledge deeper in his gut.

 _Well, here goes nothing._ Tord sighed, finally moving closer to the building. At least if he died he didn't have to go to his dumb physical therapy sessions anymore. Sure, they helped him get used to his arm, but that was stupid. He built a fucking robot arm! And coded it single-handedly (Oh, that one hurt.). The last thing he needed was some crackpot telling him what he could and couldn't do. (Paul told him it wasn't nice to call his therapists 'crackpots’. Tord told him to fuck himself.) 'Tord, don't lift heavy machinery’, 'Red Leader you shouldn't be firing a gun with only one eye’ don't do this, you can't do that, he was sick of it. So maybe he ditched his daily therapy session and hightailed it to England first chance he got.

With a gloved hand, Tord pushed against the front door, entering the lobby gingerly. In his attempt to blend in, Tord had downed black gloves and an equally black trench coat, abandoning his signature hoodie for something less conspicuous and blood-soaked. He genuinely didn't believe he'd get out of this encounter alive--but that'd be fine. He deserved it anyway. Their home was destroyed because of his actions, the least they could do is punch him. Though he expected rejection, Tord couldn't say he was looking forward to it.

_They still hate you._

Of course, they fucking do. Hell, he hated himself. Who didn't hate him at this point? The mental t-chart in his head of who did and didn't hate him was so unbalanced it could be classified as a bulleted list.

His feet were quiet against the linoleum floors, his ratty boots silently echoing through the air. Tord's throat was slightly clogged from the amount of tension flooding his senses. Keeping his eyes to the floor, he silently pressed the lift button, calling it to the ground floor. The lift itself was scarcely big enough to fit three or four people and appeared old enough to snap at the mention of adding more than that. Claustrophobia tugged against Tord's collar, creeping its way into every ounce of his mind.

He really fucking hated tiny spaces.

Because small spaces meant _crashing, burning, heat, fire, hot--too hot--get it off, it's too hot, he's going to die, metal pressed against him, too hot, please, get it off get it off get it off he can feel it melting his--_

Breathe.

Inhale, “It's fine.”, exhale. “It's not real.” He was okay. _Good God, why was he doing this?_

 _Guilt._ Oh, yeah. It wasn't like his every waking thought was plagued by his own betrayal, wondering if he was better off dead, and thinking about what happened exactly five months, twelve days, fifteen hours and forty-five minutes ago. It wasn't as if he kept count. _Forty-six minutes._ Fuck, he was in deep.

As Tord listened to the eerie elevator noises, he reviewed his plan of action. Tom and Edd were at the very bottom of people he wanted to confront right now, so that left Matt--easily the least likely out of the bunch to murder him on the spot. Not that Matt wasn't capable of murdering him, he just had the _least_ vendetta. Apart from his face, shit, uh, okay so maybe Matt wouldn't be the easiest to talk to? It didn't matter, in a few hours he’d probably have a harpoon through his chest anyway, so as long as he didn't see all three of them at once, Tord would be mostly ready to accept his demise.

The lift made a groaning noise that freaked Tord out more than he would have cared to admit, and the shaft momentarily lurched so it could stop. He waited for the doors to open, each metal hinge desperately trying to move. As the elevator finally began to open, Tord could vaguely make out voices drifting in from the hallway.

“I'm just saying, if birds could f--” The voice halted in the middle, the unknown speakers' words clogging their throat. “Tord?”

Instantaneously his eye darted upwards, making direct contact with a man down the hall dressed in green. Well, him and his two friends. It took approximately ten seconds for everyone's brain to register what was going on. When they did, everything began happening at once.

A flash of blue and purple streaked the hallway, Tord frantically trying to take back his decision to come here. _It wasn't supposed to happen like this--it was too much too much too much too much--_ He slammed the button controlling the lift's doors. The machine grumbled in response, each door agonizingly slowly beginning to move together. Tom and Matt were halfway down the hall now, Edd left behind. Tord's eye dashed between the group and the panel of buttons, hastily slamming his fingers against as many as he could reach.

_Please work, please work, please work--close goddamnit!_

At this point he was practically punching the close door button, hoping  _maybe_ something would happen. His hoping worked, as something did happen. An angry hand shot through the doorway, clasping onto Tord's exposed sleeve. For a split second, Tord looked directly at the non-existent eyes of his former roommate; for another split second his breath hitched and the edge of an oncoming anxiety attack pressed against his chest. He passed out before it could happen, the sound of a bottle smashing careening down the apartment hall. Slowly, his body began to be dragged away, blood steadily trickling down his forehead.

* * *

 When Tord woke up, his back ached with the familiar pain of being curled in on yourself for unhealthily long periods of time. A feeling he knew too well from countless nights wasted on paperwork, plans, and blueprints. He groaned, attempting to straighten out his genuinely awful posture, eyes groggily opening. Before Tord moved more than an inch his head slammed flat against some unknown force above him.

“The fuck-” He whispered to himself, cutting his own thought off as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. “Why do I smell like vodka?”

Correction: he _reeked_ of vodka. It was almost overwhelming, the stench of cheap alcohol and dust lingering over his senses. His eye watered at the intensity.

Tord’s vision started adjusting to the--now that he thought about it--weirdly dark room he was in as well. Actually, it was less of a room and more of a box. Or a cupboard. His feet were practically against his chest, though he was sitting on his left hand. Speaking of hands, his right one was missing--again. Why was his arm missing?

_Hm; no arm, small space? Smells like trauma._

His brain needed to shut the fuck up, immediately, right now, thanks. It wasn’t like he was crash-- _shut up shut up shut up shut up._

A burning sensation crawled up his right side, enveloping where his right arm _would_ be. Tears pricked Tord’s eyes as the imaginary fire licked his phantom arm, pain rendering it useless. Not that he could use it anyways, all it was was a result of his stupid brain thinking he was back in that goddamn cockpit. His right arm was tingling, sending vibrations up his side. _You’re fine it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real._

He needed a distraction.

Okay, the last thing he remembered was, uh, fuck. Tord wracked his brain for information. He was in an elevator? Yes, an elevator. Why was he in an elevator? Something about apologizing? Apologizing….to….?

Fuck, his head hurt. _Getting hit with a glass bottle will do that to you._ He was hit?

“Shut up you twats,” A new voice flooded Tord’s ears, angrily and badly whispering. “I think he’s waking up.”

Another, equally angry--and equally bad at whispering--person joined in, “Well we should fucking hope so Edd. Sleeping Beauty in there is taking his sweet time, I bet he’s faking it.”

 _Oh, right._ “Where the hell am I?” He asked, trying not to let the annoyance show through.

“Edd’s closet--”

 _“Matt.”_ Both Edd and Tom breathed.

“Whoops, were we not supposed to tell him?”

A sigh--disappointed enough to make Tord practically hear the eye-roll inevitably accompanied by it--slid through the closet walls. “Matt, just let me and Tom handle this.”

“Tom and I, Edd.” Tom corrected.

“Nevermind, Tom's speaking privileges have been revoked.”

Not being able to help it, Tord snickered. “You are all idiots.”

“Fuck off Comm- oh shit Edd he's awake.”

“Tom,” Edd chuckled darkly, “I'm going to slurp your shoelaces like spaghetti.”

“Please, just murder me like any other normal person--”

God, they were so fucking stupid-- _but how was he any different?_

Edd cleared his throat, presumably sending dagger eyes at both Matt and Tom. “Okay Tord, why---”

“Why the _fuck_ did you come back?”

“ _Tom, your speaking privileges were revoked!”_

Despite the being shoved in a closet, losing his arm again, and getting hit upside the head with a Smirnoff bottle, Tord laughed again. He truly _did_ miss them, although he thought the death that would accompany his arrival after entering the building would have happened sooner--but the fact that he had been in close proximity of the gang for around ten minutes now with no death was nice. Not that he knew for sure it had been ten minutes, Tord happened to be passed out for a majority of the time he was here, and the passage of time within the closet was relative.

“To answer your question, Tom,” Tord began, trying to avoid eye contact--even if he couldn't see any of his ex-friends he could _feel_ their stares against his neck. “I came to apologize.” He leaned against the closet door with a slight umph as his stump of a right arm collided with the surface. It kinda hurt to put his weight on it, but honestly, who cared?

“I call bull and shit, all in favor?” Tom’s annoyed voice grated on Tord’s ears.

He chuckled, figures they wouldn’t believe him. “Fine, you caught me--I actually came to kill all of you by grossing you out until you faint and die.” Sure, the scars and blood may have been a little intimidating, but right now he only had one working arm and eye. He couldn’t walk in a straight line--let alone murder someone. His depth perception was too far off, if he tried he’d miss and end up stabbing the air. “Now can I leave?”

No response. The air was still, yet if Tord strained he could hear slight whispers.

He decided to try again. “I really am sorry. I know you don't trust me, I know you are mad. And I know you probably think it would be better if I had died under all that debris.” _It's what he deserved_. “But, I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I'm asking if I can apologize.”

The whispers stopped.

The closet door clicked and his support gave out. Tord ended up with a face full of carpet, his body slightly sprawled out. He’d try to get up--If not for the fact he currently was lying on top of his left arm, feet still in the closet. So that wasn’t happening. Guess he lived on the floor now.

Or not, because not even a minute later he was being helped to his feet by Edd, pulling him off the floor. “We already forgave you, no need for dramatics.” Edd laughed at him, a smile pulling at his cheeks. “But, there is a condition.”

Before Tord could conceive any possible condition Edd, Tom, and Matt would have thought of, a fist came flying at his face. Normally, he could take a hefty punch, but this came completely out of the blue--sure his anxiety had been dialed to eleven since he first saw Edd, but that couldn’t prepare him for a supersonic deck to the face. Tord stumbled, his feet stumbling backward under the force. He ended up falling right back on the floor, nose, and cheek stinging with the formation of what would be a bruise any minute now.

Tom awkwardly laughed. “Holy fuck, I think you killed him Edd.”

“Tord, mate, you good?” Edd elected to ignore Tom’s comment, shuffling over to their ex-ex-friend. “You’re not dead again, are you?”

“If Todd’s dead, do we have to hide the body?” Matt piped up.

“Even if he was dead, we wouldn’t hide the body you twatt, I’d turn it into the police for that sweet reward fund. And it’s not ‘Todd’, it’s ‘Tord’.”

“I know.”

Once, twice, three times, Tord blinked, sitting up after having his lights knocked out twice now. He felt liquid run down his mouth, dripping off his chin. Swiping two fingers under his nose, Tord examined what he knew would be blood. But wow, was that a lot of blood. “Nice right-hook.”

“Thank you.”

Careful not to agitate both his nose bleed and minor-concussion, he got to his feet. “Can I have my arm back?”

“Oh shit yeah,” Tom turned around, pulling a wad of Tord’s things off the table behind him.

As Tom passed Tord the bundle, he realized his trenchcoat was included. Funny, he didn’t even notice he wasn’t wearing it. He unfurled the ball of stuff, pulling out his false arm to reattach. After rolling up his right shirt sleeve, Tord shoved the arm onto his nub, fastening it securely on. God, it felt good to have two arms again.

“You better be here for good this time.”


End file.
